Here we wooeee go, pardners, it’s the Wild West times,

an’ the Wild South too, an’ the Wild East as well,

an’ the Wild Midwest — we’re all a’gonna go crazy

with them slick holsters and lightnin’ draws,

rifle-racked trucks, an’ all such stuff now.

I don’t like this, ‘n you don’t like that,

so reach for it, Mister — or let’s meet at high noon.

There’s gentlemen’s duels ‘n shot up saloons.

Blast in the back cowardly or honorably in front,

I see ya’, guess I’ll shoot ya’, why not, what the heck.

An’ I ain’t a’spillin’ my Starbucks, 100 percent.

A dude on the elevator’s invadin’ my space,

or some broad in Longs coughs in my face,

I’m pullin’ my iron an’ teachen ‘em a lesson.

Tip my 10-gallon an’ strut my long stride,

then quicker ‘n spit, damn, it’s my turn ta die.

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